


la belle époque

by vlieger



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/480186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger





	la belle époque

Rafa called him close to midnight on Christmas Day.

He sounded tired when he said, "Feliz Navidad," a good kind of tired, soft and content, not like the ragged, worn-down end of season ache Roger knew they all shouldered into the end of the year.

"Merry Christmas, Rafa," said Roger, smiling through the dark.

The lights were off and there was a kind of unearthly laciness to the yellow-patterned shadows from stray Christmas lights. It was snowing lazily outside. Roger liked snow; there was something peaceful about it like there wasn't when it rained, quiet and gentle. The phone was warm against his ear and everything was kind of beautiful.

"You should come to Mallorca," said Rafa through a yawn.

Roger hummed a quiet laugh.

"Is serious," said Rafa, a little more distinctly.

"I." Roger ran a hand through his hair, blinking. "I mean, I'll see you really soon in Melbourne, you know."

"Everyone see you really soon in Melbourne," said Rafa.

"Oh," said Roger. Something about the way Rafa said it, like it was the simplest, most obvious thing in the world, made his breath catch.

"Oh," echoed Rafa. It sounded like his nice way of saying _duh_.

Roger laughed. It was just ticking a minute or two past midnight, the snow outside was piling up in silent heaps, and Spanish sunshine had its own, warm kind of quiet. "Okay," he said.

 

They met at Rafa's front door. It was the first time Roger had been to his house; Rafa had wanted to pick him up at the airport but compromised by dictating his address clearly twice and making Roger read it back to him, and saying, "I cook dinner. No eating too much on plane."

It was nearing ten pm, soft and inky dark. Rafa said, "Hola," with a bright grin, backlit by the liquid golden lights inside his house, and enveloped Roger in a hug.

"Hi, Rafa," said Roger into his shoulder, letting go of his bag to bring his arms up around Rafa's back.

Rafa was still smiling when he let go. "Come in, there is food," he said, grabbing Roger's bag and turning to lead him inside.

Roger looked around curiously.

His house was probably a little bigger than one person needed, but lived in; Roger knew he babysat his cousins when he could. It wasn't untidy-- that was Rafa all over-- but there were shoes lined up against the wall in the front hallway, Rafa's as well as smaller kid's ones, and neatly-stacked shelves of loved-looking books.

"Nice place," he said.

Rafa ducked a smile over his shoulder. "I like," he said simply.

"No swimming pool or tennis court?" said Roger, grinning to himself.

"Is not palace," said Rafa. Roger could hear him rolling his eyes. "Beach is five minute walk."

"Sounds nice," said Roger. He followed Rafa into a brightly-lit kitchen. There was food littered across the counter, two sets of cutlery and crockery. "And smells really good."

Rafa dropped the bag by the table and handed Roger a plate. "We eat outside," he said. "Not too cold today."

"Okay," said Roger easily.

He followed Rafa outside. The kitchen opened onto a cozy, red-tiled patio, which in turn overlooked a well-sized garden. It was cool but not unpleasantly so. Roger set his plate, now heaped with some kind of stew, down on the table and slid into a chair as Rafa placed his own plate, a bottle of red wine and two glasses alongside.

Rafa left it so the only light was spilling out from the open doors to the kitchen. It was just enough to see what they were doing, for Roger to see the sharp outline of Rafa's face, half-shadowed where he was seated at the opposite side of the table.

"You can smell the sea," said Roger, surprised, as the breeze picked up a little.

"Si," said Rafa, pouring two generous glasses of wine. "I tell you is close."

"I believe you now," said Roger, grinning.

Rafa rolled his eyes. "Eat," he said, gesturing with his fork.

Roger did, shaking his head as he tucked a forkful into his mouth.

"Good?" said Rafa, watching him.

"Very good," said Roger sincerely. "You play football out here?" he added, gesturing to the garden, a vast portion of which was grass.

"Si, of course," said Rafa. "My cousins come, we play matches. All them on one team, me by myself."

Roger laughed. "Maybe I'll play next time," he said. "On your team, help you win."

"Ah," said Rafa. He grinned, dimples creased deep. "They very good, no? Is hard to win."

"I used to be pretty good at football," said Roger.

"I knowing," said Rafa. "I hope not as good as tennis, or will be very boring match."

"Maybe better," said Roger with a grin.

Rafa shook his head. "Is not possible," he said.

Roger shrugged. "Well, it's too late now, anyway," he said.

"Si, is sad," said Rafa seriously. "Only winning sixty-nine trophies." He sighed dramatically.

Roger threw a napkin at him. "Shut up," he said.

Rafa laughed. "We play football sometime," he said. "Is fun. My cousins, they like you."

Roger nodded, swallowing a mouthful of his wine. "I hope so," he said.

They ate the rest of the meal mostly in comfortable silence. The wind picked up a little more, but the wine was strong; Roger felt it warm beneath his skin even after a single glass. He slumped back in his chair when he was finished, staring out over the garden, the faint silhouettes of neighbouring rooftops, listening to the soft sounds of Rafa pouring them more wine.

They sat like that for a very long time, just comfortable, drinking.

Roger let his head tip back, let the wine sit heavy on his tongue before he swallowed, let himself enjoy the easy familiarity of Rafa sitting across from him.

When he finally glanced over Rafa was watching him like he had been for a long time, soft about the eyes and steady.

"What," he said, running a self-conscious hand through his hair. It made Rafa giggle.

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. His hair settled haphazardly across his forehead.

"Okay." Roger reached out for the bottle of wine, rotating the neck between his fingers. The last half-glass sloshed sweet, ocean-like around the bottom. "This wine is really strong. I think I'm going to finish the rest."

"Si," said Rafa easily. He stretched out in his chair. His cheeks were very flushed, and his shirt rode up unnoticed over the bare flat plane of his stomach.

Roger watched the shadows nestled against his hipbones and drank the wine straight from the bottle.

"I take photo," said Rafa, grinning loosely. "Put on internet. People see Roger Federer drinking like-- like, ah, deseducado, is big scandal."

"Pfft," said Roger. "You don't even know where your phone is."

"Hey," said Rafa, patting his pockets. He frowned and pointed at Roger. "You take."

"Yeah." Roger nodded seriously. "I thought you might try to take bad photos of me, so I hid it before you had too much to drink."

Rafa's forehead creased.

"I'm joking," said Roger.

"Ah," said Rafa. "Is hard to tell, no? You joke, is never funny."

"Shut up," said Roger, laughing.

Rafa smiled at him. Then he was silent. Roger watched his smile fade as he turned away, staring placidly up at the sky.

"Is like looking at sun," said Rafa after a long moment, glancing over and meeting Roger's eyes. "Hurts sometime."

Roger had a brief, odd moment of vague panic when he knew what Rafa meant and couldn't figure out whether it was because he'd had too much or not enough to drink.

He did, though; bright and beautiful and sometimes too much, always there even when it wasn't. Rafa all over.

"Rafa," he said.

"I can kiss you?" said Rafa.

Roger swallowed. "Rafa," he said quietly.

"We kiss before," said Rafa.

"That's." Roger stopped. It was different; locker rooms and hotels were this kind of suspended environment where everything felt too keyed-up and fast and slippery. Where whatever happened, happened, and then you moved on to the next city, the next tournament. That was before he found himself alone in Basel at Christmastime, waiting for-- for _something_ , or the new season to start, whichever came first.

"I know," said Rafa, scraping his chair closer to Roger's.

Roger reached out without thinking to touch the soft skin at Rafa's hips. He was so warm.

Rafa leaned in while Roger's eyes were still on his own hand and pressed their mouths together. It was soft and wet; Rafa tasted like the too-sweet wine he'd finished most of and kissed slowly, licking almost hesitantly at the corner of Roger's mouth. Roger mirrored his movements, the weight of his kisses. He only gave back what he got; more felt like asking too much.

Rafa made soft noises into his mouth and cupped a hot hand over the side of Roger's neck, right where his jugular thudded like a caged insect against his skin.

It felt like too much and not nearly enough; like the tipping point of something still mostly uncertain.

When Rafa pulled back his eyelids were heavy and his mouth was wet. Roger blinked at him.

"We go to sleep," said Rafa quietly. "You tired from flying, no?"

"I," said Roger. "Okay, yeah. Yeah."

Rafa leaned in to kiss him again, light and lingering. Roger didn't think about much else before he fell heavily asleep in the guest bedroom.

 

Rafa shuffled into the kitchen around midday. Roger beat him there, but not by much, just rinsing his cereal bowl as Rafa leaned heavily on the counter.

"Hi," said Roger, leaving his bowl to drain by the sink.

"Hola," said Rafa throatily. He reached out to flick the switch on the kettle.

He smelled like sweat and toothpaste; it was oddly appealing, like comfortable warmth and the sunshine streaking over him from the unshuttered window.

Roger swallowed.

It was strange and unexpected, the way Roger felt this tingling mix of brave and stupid when he caught Rafa with a hand on his waist and leaned in to kiss him.

Usually this thing they had came on the heels of something, a match lost or won, a leftover rush of adrenaline caged in a hotel room.

He'd never done it just because. He couldn't remember why, in this moment, with Rafa pressed flush against him, all warm skin and hard muscle, kissing him back messy and eager.

Roger pushed him back against the counter, hands sliding around his hips and pinning him there. Rafa made a low noise into his mouth and pulled Roger closer, sliding his hands, palms flat, beneath the elastic of his sweatpants. He was blood-hot all over; heat pooled in the hollows of his palms and the soft dip of his stomach, the slick curve of his mouth.

Roger's nails scrabbled clumsily up under his shirt, over his ribs, to make Rafa arch and shiver deliciously, and then lower to drag his sleep-pants down and meet him with a bruising thrust into the counter. Rafa choked low in his throat and folded into him with his arms around Roger's neck, a leg hitched alongside his thigh to hold them in place, the small of his back tucked against the edge of the counter. It was terribly unromantic and altogether lovely, rolling his hips desperately and being met by a just-as-eager Rafa, dropping his head onto Rafa's shoulder, nestled between the shape of Rafa's arm and the hazy puddle of sunshine from the window behind him. He felt too hot, skin too tight, and all he could do was cant forward ungracefully and scrape his nails down over Rafa's hips, movements too haphazard to even get a hand between them.

Rafa said, "Roger," and it probably wasn't what he meant but Roger remembered vaguely, scraping his teeth over Rafa's jaw, that okay, he was thirty now, not actually a teenager, and while rutting like he was worked more than adequately, some things were even better than that.

"Here," he said, pushing his forehead to Rafa's temple and slowing, the fingers on his left hand tightening to bruising on Rafa's side while he tugged his own pants down and wrapped his right around both of them.

It was slick but not quite enough. Rafa dropped an arm to brush his knuckles over Roger's wrist and murmur, "Aquí, me dejó, me dejó," lifting Roger's hand to his mouth and licking.

Roger groaned something unintelligible and curled his fingers back around Rafa's cock, thrusting against his own knuckles as he worked Rafa, moving in time with Rafa's hand flexing on his back.

Rafa came with a sound halfway between a sigh and a moan, breathing damp against Roger's hair and shuddering hard, sleep-heavy and untamed. Roger waited as long as he could, which wasn't really long at all, before he wrapped his come-slick hand around his own dick so he could finish too, messing up Rafa's shirt (and probably his own) beyond any repair.

There was silence for a moment, a stretched-out quiet of pulsing heartbeats and deliberate stillness, and then Rafa huffed a laugh into Roger's skin and untangled himself enough to slide down to the floor. Roger sat down too, ungrounded without Rafa's weight to lean on. The tiles were pleasantly cool on his overheated skin.

"No can eat in here now," said Rafa after a long moment of slowing breaths.

Roger rolled his head to look at him. "Why?"

Rafa wrinkled his nose and looked ruefully down at himself. "Is dirty," he said, and Roger burst out laughing.

"Okay," he said at last, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "You want to go out for lunch?"

"Si," said Rafa.

 

That night Rafa stood loose-limbed over the kitchen sink, his weight on one cocked hip as he washed the dishes he'd refused to let Roger help him with.

He was beautiful: his quick hands, the soft slope of his neck, the pink shape of his mouth emerging from the shadows cast by his hair.

Roger found himself staring at his sleek reflection in the window because it was just a little bit easier to keep his hands to himself that way, imagining him as some watery trick of the light, translucent and untouchable and not Rafa here in his kitchen, all warm smooth skin and as real and lovely as anything could get.

Roger thought then, very clearly and succinctly: _shit_.

He cleared his throat. "I'm gonna go to bed," he said.

Rafa glanced at him. "Tired, old man?" He quirked a half-smile.

"Yes," said Roger with as much dignity as he could manage.

Rafa snorted. "Okay," he said. "Tomorrow I show you beach, si?"

"Sure," said Roger. "Night, Rafa."

"Goodnight," said Rafa, throwing a bitten-lipped smile over his shoulder.

Roger sighed as he made his way into bed, lying insistently on his back until he finally dropped off to sleep.

 

"Roger," said Rafa.

Roger hummed and pushed his head under a pillow. He vaguely registered the muffled sound of Rafa chuckling.

"Roger," he said again. "Is morning, best time to go to beach."

"I'm on holiday," said Roger.

"Bed is not holiday," said Rafa. "Beach is holiday."

"Come back when you're thirty and say that to me again," said Roger, but he sat up, stretching and blinking blearily at Rafa.

Rafa's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Lazy," he said. "We have to drive? Maybe five minutes is too much to walk."

Roger slapped a pillow at him and swung out of the bed. "Hurry up then," he said, and Rafa laughed and moved after him.

 

The beach was empty at this time of morning. Rafa said, "In summer is never empty. Sometimes we come in the middle of night."

"Maybe I'll come back in summer," said Roger absently.

Rafa looked at him. Roger had to look away.

"We go swimming?" said Rafa after a moment with a grin in his voice.

"You can go swimming, sure," said Roger agreeably.

"Ah," said Rafa. "No, is no good. You visit, si, you have to go swimming. Is rule."

"Rafa," said Roger, "It's freezing."

"You come from Switzerland," said Rafa incredulously. "Is _snow_."

Roger grinned.

Rafa shook his head and moved closer to Roger, sliding a hand not unthreateningly over his back. "Swimming," said Rafa.

"Don't you dare," said Roger as Rafa wrapped his other arm around his front and tried to tug him towards the water. Roger dug his heels into the sand. "Rafa. I'll sabotage your Australian Open. I'll kick over your water bottles and steal all your bananas."

Rafa giggled into his shoulder. "You never," he said confidently.

"Okay, maybe not so serious," said Roger. "I'll just break your leg or something."

Rafa snorted. "Okay," he said. "You try, si?"

Roger turned a wide-eyed look on him. "Are you saying I couldn't take you?" he said.

"Maybe on tennis court," said Rafa. "Not in fight."

Roger let go of Rafa to cross his arms. "I'm maybe not as big as you," he said. "But I'm still strong."

Rafa's mouth twitched upwards at the corners. "I never notice this before," he said. "I think is amazing how you play tennis."

"I know you're being sarcastic," said Roger, "But it's not working because I know that's true anyway."

Rafa rolled his eyes. "Is because you too nice," he said.

"I'm not nice," said Roger. "I'm just pretending to be nice. For the cameras, you know."

"Liar," said Rafa.

Roger sighed. "I don't know why I bother," he said.

Rafa stepped closer, nudged him with his elbow. "I know you, si?"

"Yeah," said Roger. It was a little scary how true it was; odd when he thought about the things it meant in tennis. There if someone _knew_ you it was bad. Dangerous. Roger couldn't find it in him to worry, though. It didn't feel like Rafa knowing him was anything but easy. The way it should be.

He tried not to think about what that meant in itself. It made him feel tight and anxious like he did when he was down in a match. "Yeah," he said again, breathing out.

 

Roger was conscious of a very deliberate, very redundant pause in the entrance of Rafa's house before he turned to Rafa and pressed his wrists back against the door.

"Rafa," he said, stretching his fingers to dip into the hollows of Rafa's palms.

Rafa made a muted noise somewhere between dismissal and acquiescence and met him halfway.

He held Rafa there while he ground against him, fascinated by the way he tipped his head back helplessly, the long line of his throat and the skin stretched paper-thin over the tendons.

Then he dropped to his knees. Rafa snapped his head down so fast Roger was surprised it didn't hurt. He started undoing the buttons on Rafa's jeans, steady and deft.

"Roger," said Rafa, trailing off when Roger palmed over the front of his briefs.

"Hmm," said Roger, tugging them down too and leaning in to mouth at the head of Rafa's cock. Sometimes he liked to play around, drag it out. He didn't feel like it today.

"Roger," said Rafa again. His voice was thin, breathless. "Your knees, you-- " He stopped again.

"They're fine," said Roger, pulling off. "It's fine. Rafa."

He cupped a hand over one of Rafa's bare knees. There were scars, slightly raised under his fingers. The muscle tensed and trembled under his palm.

Rafa said, "Okay," and dropped a hand, the heel of which he touched to Roger's temple, fingers pushing into his hair.

Roger said, "Yeah," and sucked him down again, slow and measured, firm suction and dragging movement.

Rafa groaned, head dropping back against the door, hand tightening unconsciously in Roger's hair and then unclenching entirely when he realised. Roger huffed a laugh, which made Rafa's hips buck. Roger moved the hand that wasn't curled around the base of Rafa's cock to press into his hip, not bruising but firm, fingers trailing over the bone.

He felt Rafa's stomach muscles clench, the tightly coiled control as he tried not to move. He pulled off to smile.

"Good, Rafa," he said. "So good. It's okay, you can." He stopped, brushed his knuckles over the soft skin low on Rafa's belly and swallowed him down.

Rafa breathed out sharply, said, "Dios, dios," and pushed his hips up. It wasn't uncontrolled, not completely, but Roger liked that, the way it was Rafa all over.

It didn't take long. He could feel how keyed-up Rafa was, how his control was slipping by increments.

When he came it was with his hips tilted up hard, hands fisted, one alongside Roger's face and the other against the door.

Roger lifted his hands off Rafa slowly, waiting. He was so hard; he wanted to come but he wanted Rafa's hands on him, Rafa breathing hot on his neck and whispering things in Spanish he couldn't quite catch. It would have been disconcerting, how he needed _that_ more than he just needed to come, how Rafa's calloused hands fumbling over his skin were more important than using his own to the same end, if he could actually-- well. It didn't make much sense and Roger didn't particularly care.

He watched Rafa, who didn't look hugely comfortable the way he was holding himself up against the door, and licked his lips absently. Rafa glanced down just as he did and made this little frustrated noise, folding to his knees and shifting his weight to press against Roger, scrabbling Roger's thighs apart to push a leg between them. He kissed Roger messily all the way through, and Roger came with his back bent over awkwardly and too much weight on all the wrong places, and it was pretty much fantastic.

 

They spent the rest of the day inside. Rafa had a nice couch, wide and comfortable, and Roger dozed on and off between what Rafa told him were serious shows but Roger suspected were actually horrendously trashy soap operas.

"I thought they were cousins," he said at one point, narrowing his afternoon-heavy eyes and craning his neck closer to the TV.

Rafa clicked his tongue, eyes on the screen. "They find out was not real," he said, waving a hand.

"Serious, huh?" said Roger, biting back a smile.

Rafa cut him a haughty sidelong glance. "Is very big problem," he said. "Very serious."

Roger said, "Sure," and stretched his arms above his head, realising only as he did that his calves were slung across Rafa's lap, probably had been for the entire time he'd been slouched across more than sitting on the couch. He looked over at Rafa, who was still watching the show with a small smile settled into the corners of his mouth.

He had one arm resting on the shoulder of the couch and the other on the cushion beside him, apparently not bothered at all.

Roger shifted, suddenly over-conscious of everywhere he was touching Rafa, and focused hard on the TV.

He felt very good but also very off-centre here in Spain, here with Rafa, caught on the cusp of something he couldn't just reach out and take, that probably wasn't even _there_ for him to take.

It was slow and perplexing and he couldn't figure it out or fix it with a whipping forehand or a well-timed smile, and that-- well, that kind of sucked.

 

Over dinner, which Roger cooked, despite Rafa's numerous protests-- 

("You're a guest," he said, frowning.

Roger waved a hand. "Really?" he said. "Still?"

"You break my kitchen," Rafa tried next, which just made Roger laugh.

"Shut up," he said. "My manners beat your manners tonight.")

\-- and which wasn't half-bad, if Roger said so himself, even if it was only pasta--

("I learned how to cook this sauce in Rome," he said.

Rafa flicked a curl of parmesan at him. "Show off," he said.

"What." Roger spread his hands. "You've been to Rome too. Lots of times. It's not my fault you didn't learn to cook.")

\-- Rafa said, spinning his fork in his empty bowl, elbows cramped on the charmingly small kitchen table, "Is New Year soon. My family, we have celebrate."

"Oh," said Roger. He wasn't really sure what else to say; anything felt like imposing, assuming either too much or too little. Which was weird, really, with Rafa.

Rafa rolled his eyes. "You come," he said, tapping his fork on the rim of his bowl. "Unless you go? I forget to ask."

"No, I." Roger shrugged. "I'd like to come. I like your family better than you, anyway."

"Not true," said Rafa comfortably, knocking his ankle against Roger's. Then he frowned guiltily and added, "My family is very nice too."

Roger laughed quietly, shook his head, and pushed back against Rafa's ankle.

 

"So tell me, where are we going?" said Roger, yawning. It was pale pre-dawn through the windshield, and the damp smell of oncoming rain was still lingering inside the car.

Rafa rolled his eyes. "I tell you already," he said. "We go see old buildings. For tourist like you, si?"

"'Old buildings' isn't exactly a place," said Roger.

Rafa sighed loudly. "Nostra Senyora dels Dolors," he said. "Church."

"Sounds nice," said Roger. "Do they have coffee close?"

Rafa lifted one hand from the steering wheel to shove at Roger's shoulder.

"Hey," said Roger. "I just want to be awake to see the church."

 

It started to rain as they stood outside. Rafa made to move towards the car but Roger held onto his elbow, said, "Hey, no," tilting his head up to take in the steeple.

"Was built over old mosque," said Rafa. "They say it looks similar."

Roger cocked his head.

"Is not oldest church," said Rafa. "But prettiest, I think."

"Yeah," said Roger. "I like it."

Rafa smiled at him.

"Come on," said Roger. "Let's go before we catch pneumonia."

Rafa laughed and followed him to the car, sliding into the back seat with a coffee clutched in each hand. They drank in silence, listening to the rain against the car. When Roger finally set his empty cup down and looked away from the fogged-up, slow-waking street outside Rafa was eyeing him hotly, eyes dark and lower lip pulled between his teeth.

Roger swallowed and looked kind of helplessly around him, at the rain-streaked windows and the narrow gap between their knees on the seat.

Rafa said, "Roger," and Roger was mostly helpless in the way he leaned forward to kiss Rafa, curling his hands in his shirt and pulling him forward.

He fell back harder than expected; Rafa shifted all his weight and pressed Roger flat across the seat, scrambling unavoidably awkwardly to settle over him. It wasn't the most comfortable thing ever. One hipbone dug sharp into the soft skin low on Roger's belly and his left knee was pushing almost bone-to-bone against Roger's right. The other, Roger suspected, didn't even fit on the seat. He shifted enough to get his arms around Rafa's back, helping him to settle in closer, and stared open-mouthed at the roof as Rafa bit down on his neck.

"I'm _thirty_ ," he said, trying for conviction and ending up somewhere around despairing.

Rafa laughed against the underside of his jaw.

"No, seriously," said Roger, "This is going to be a disaster, we're not-- "

Rafa cut him off with a kiss, sucking determinedly on his bottom lip as he fumbled with Roger's jeans.

"Okay," said Roger weakly when Rafa twisted and nudged a knee between his legs, "Don't say I didn't-- _ow_." He glared at Rafa from where his neck was wedged awkwardly against the door courtesy of Rafa's generous but overdone grinding. " _Warn you_ ," he finished.

Rafa snorted and slid down Roger's chest to bury his giggles in the curve of his hip.

"It's not funny," said Roger, biting back a smile.

"Is little funny," said Rafa, looking up at him. Roger reached out without thinking to brush his knuckles down Rafa's cheek. His hair was still damp from the rain and his cheeks were flushed from the close hot air inside the car, and his eyes were very wide, bright and blown. He was just-- beautiful.

Roger pushed his thumb against the corner of Rafa's mouth and Rafa opened up so easily, licking over the sensitive skin down the side.

"Yeah," said Roger stupidly. "Okay."

Rafa bit down on the first joint and grinned.

"Shit," said Roger, as Rafa started trying to pull his jeans down, "What am I going to say when people ask how I got injured?"

"You say was because you not helping," said Rafa, letting go of his thumb.

Roger laughed. "Okay, okay, sorry," he said, lifting his hips.

"Good," said Rafa, and swallowed him down.

Roger arched his neck and hit his head on the door again, choking on a laugh when Rafa curled his fingers around the base of his dick and the breath stuck in his throat.

"God, Rafa," he said. "This is crazy."

Rafa hummed around him. It was far from precise; Rafa kept shifting his weight around in the cramped space, letting his mouth go slack and then suddenly sucking hard through hollowed-out cheeks, lifting a hand to steady himself and then bringing it back unexpectedly to touch Roger at the crease of his thighs, the dip of his stomach, behind his balls.

Roger twisted, not quite knowing what to do with all his limbs. In the end he settled one hand on Rafa's shoulder, let the other fall over the side of the seat, and wondered how much damage he was doing every time he forgot himself and pushed his head too hard into the door. He said, "This can't-- God-- this can't be good for your knees," and Rafa pulled off long enough to mumble, "So you hurry up, no?" before leaning back in, shifting more of his weight onto his arms.

Roger breathed out, "Yeah," and really, he didn't need Rafa telling him to hurry up; the overheated blanket-like air, the boxed-in space, the niggling fact that this was a _car_ and they were practically in _public_ all added up to a desperate, itching need for more and faster and _now_.

"Crazy," he said again after, huffing a breathless laugh as he tilted his head down to look at Rafa.

Rafa's cheeks were tinged blood-pink and his breaths were slowing.

"Did you," said Roger slowly.

Rafa shrugged. "Longer is too bad for knees, no?" He pushed himself up to sit properly on the seat, grimacing a little as he glanced down at his pants.

"You know, I think maybe it's time to go," said Roger.

Rafa nodded. "Shower," he said.

"More coffee," said Roger.

Rafa frowned at him.

"What," said Roger. "Your priorities change when you get older, man." He paused, then added, "And also, I didn't just-- "

"Okay," said Rafa loudly, climbing into the driver's seat. "I have shower, you have coffee, is good."

Roger laughed, long and helpless, ducking to slide into the passenger side.

 

New Year's Eve came around in a sweep of easing rain and oddly suspended sunlight, the kind where it hung on for endless moments and then fell too fast over the horizon, the time simultaneously slowing to a series of stillframes that seemed to add up to far more than the few days Roger had been in Spain, and tilting at the same time headfirst into the coming year.

"You know about grapes?" said Rafa as he waited outside the bathroom with stupidly audible eyerolls for Roger to finish getting ready.

"What?" said Roger.

"Grapes at midnight," said Rafa. "Is Spanish tradition."

"No," said Roger. "Tell me."

"You finish and I can tell you in the car," said Rafa.

"Or you could just tell me now," said Roger.

Rafa sighed. "Is okay," he said. "I no thinking you really finish now."

"Hey," said Roger. "I haven't asked you to go shopping once."

"True," said Rafa. When Roger stepped out into the hall he looked up from where he was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, a smirk playing about the corners of his mouth. He tilted his head at Roger. "You put on makeup, to take so long?" he said.

"Why," said Roger curiously, "Would you like that?"

Rafa flushed a little along his cheekbones, but lifted his chin and shrugged, holding back a smile.

"No, no makeup," said Roger, following Rafa towards the front door. "I just think clothes are important, you know."

He watched Rafa brush his fingers down the buttons on his own shirt-- admittedly not too bad at all; he dressed a lot better now than the awkward, ill-fitting clothes Roger remembered from when he was still just a kid, something sleeker and darker and more form-fitting-- and shrug.

"Ingrate," said Roger, grinning.

Rafa furrowed his brow. "I don't know what this means," he said, "But is not nice, no?"

"What are you talking about, I'm nice always," said Roger. 

Rafa snorted. "I look bad?" he said, holding his arms out.

"No," said Roger. He let his eyes drop to Rafa's jeans, not quite as dark as the shirt, setting it off in the quiet, understated manner of dressing Rafa had grown into.

"See," said Rafa, nodding. "No need to take so long."

Roger smoothed his hands over the front of his sweater, lined up precisely against the collar of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans. "It's the hair," he said. "This kind of thing takes time, you know? Can't just wake up and walk out the door."

Rafa rolled his eyes and giggled when Roger ducked away from his hand, stretching to reach for his hair.

 

"We have twelve grapes at midnight," Rafa explained in the car. "One for every hour, si?"

"What, twelve grapes in twelve seconds?" said Roger.

Rafa nodded. "Is funny, no? For good luck."

Roger tilted his head. "Huh," he said. "I never knew about that."

"You like grapes?" said Rafa.

"Sure," said Roger.

 

Roger stood a little self-consciously among Rafa's extensive family. Some of them he knew and a lot he didn't, but Rafa stayed next to him, nudging his Spanish along and translating when it fell short, which was too often as far as Roger was concerned.

"Why do you have to be Spanish?" he said, stealing a quiet moment before dinner. "I can speak lots of languages, you know. Just not Spanish."

"Your Español, it get better, no?" Rafa touched his elbow encouragingly.

Roger sighed. "I guess," he said.

"Anyway, they no care what you have to say," said Rafa. "They like because you famous, si?"

"You're famous," said Roger blankly.

Rafa waved a hand. "Is boring now," he said.

Roger laughed. "Well, it's good to know they don't think I'm an interesting person," he said.

"They already know," said Rafa.

Roger stalled a moment before following Rafa to the table, blinking slowly after him.

 

He noticed Rafa's Uncle Toni watching him particularly closely through dinner, casting the odd glance at Rafa too, which Roger was pretty sure Rafa noticed, if his eyerolls and half-annoyed, half-uncomfortable shifting were anything to go by. That was just Rafa and his uncle though, Roger thought, or at least hoped.

He remembered Rafa telling him about the problems (or benefits, depending on which day you looked at it) of having a relative as a coach.

("He can be-- ah, how you say-- strong?" said Rafa.

"Strict?" said Roger helpfully.

"Ah, si," said Rafa, nodding. "He can yell, no, and if I try to fire him he say 'pendejo' and-- " He mimed cuffing Roger over the back of the head.)

He smiled affably enough and shook Roger's hand after dinner, saying something in loud, rapid Spanish.

"He says you here to spy on me," said Rafa, grinning. "Maybe, ah, how you say. Sabotage?"

Roger laughed. "Never, I promise," he said. "I'm actually here to steal your uncle. I want him to coach me."

Rafa snorted and repeated Roger's words in Spanish.

Uncle Toni laughed loudly and clapped Roger on the back, said something too fast for Roger to catch with his moth-eaten Spanish.

Rafa rolled his eyes but didn't translate.

"What?" said Roger. "Tell me, what did he say?"

"He say," Rafa sighed dramatically, "I have to find new coach now, he leave me for better opportunity."

Roger spread his hands. "What can you do, man?" he said.

"You here to visit family," said Rafa sternly, "Not steal family."

"Hey, I can't help it," said Roger. "I'm just that nice. You said so yourself."

"I lie," said Rafa.

Roger snorted and shared a smile with Uncle Toni.

"Okay, we gonna go over here now," said Rafa, shepherding Roger to the other side of the room.

Uncle Toni shook his head after Rafa.

"Man, this is terrible," said Roger. "I feel like I'm twelve again."

"Wine?" said Rafa, raising an eyebrow.

"Perfect," said Roger.

 

Rafa found him alone again just after midnight, where he was standing towards the bottom of the garden with his wineglass.

He plucked it from Roger's fingers and leaned in, kissing him in the dark, a warm counterpoint to the chill breeze.

"Rafa," said Roger when he pulled back.

"No one can see," said Rafa quietly. "And my family, they know."

Roger blinked. "Know what?" he said slowly.

Rafa shrugged. "That I like you."

"I-- " Roger stared, darted his tongue out to wet his lips. "You-- you like me?"

Rafa stared right back. "Is serious?" he said. "You think this." He waved a hand between them. "Is me saying 'Roger, I don't like you?'"

"No, I." Roger stopped, shook his head. "I just didn't think you wanted-- I guess I didn't know."

Rafa rolled his eyes. "Stupid," he said. "I like very much, no? Long time." He bit down on his lip. Roger noted in the last distant stretches of light from the house that his cheeks were pink, a little with wine, a little with blood. "Is okay if not same for you. Friends, si?" He smiled.

"What?" said Roger. "Rafa, you-- " He stopped, then, and figured it was easier to just tug Rafa forward with a hand pressed to the nape of his neck and kiss him, open-mouthed and hot.

Rafa stumbled a little, steadied himself with his hands on Roger's chest, and kissed back.

"Wait a minute," said Roger later, pulling his mouth away from Rafa's neck. Rafa made a muted sound of protest and pressed closer. "What did you think _I_ was doing?"

There was a long silence.

"Rafa?" said Roger. "Oh my God, you thought I was, what-- "

"Quiet now," said Rafa loudly, kissing Roger with truly lascivious amounts of tongue to shut him up.

Roger hummed a smile into his mouth and held on tight to Rafa's hips, because that clenching, anxious feeling of uncertainty was gone, leaving behind nothing but _good_ , leaving him buzzing with maybe a little more than wine, too light. Rafa didn't say it, but the sound of Rafa's family calling _te amo, te amo_ over the rustling of hugs was drifting across the garden, and that was enough, more than enough.


End file.
